


yikes

by protaganope



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Literally just a vent fic, Mentions of psychosis, OH BOY 3AM, Self-Harm, fuckin. kitchen sink, if you came for a depression fix here it is damn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 07:33:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19352386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/protaganope/pseuds/protaganope
Summary: “I’m sorry,” he croaks. “Mom, I’m sorry.”(Tyler’s found out. The turning point. His Kitchen Sink.)





	yikes

**Author's Note:**

> Me, rubbing my hands over a characterised version of Tyler Joseph: projection time TM

God, there was so much blood.

 

Tyler is in his kitchen. It’s a Friday night. He has all the lights on.

 

(It’s harder for the _things_ to appear, if he has the lights on.)

 

So Tyler’s in his kitchen. And God, there’s so much blood.

 

His hands shake as he fumbles numbly for kitchen roll. Because the slits in his arms stretch wide, and he can’t really feel them anymore. The paper melts onto his wounds, and then tears, disintegrates; he’s rubbing too hard. 

 

But God, there’s so much blood.

 

Tyler’s family is long asleep. There’s no reason for them not to be. Tyler had slept the morning away— and the afternoon, too— favouring unconsciousness over the voices in his head. So now he’s awake. Crawled up and out from the basement. That’s never good. 

 

The blood moves out of him, lazy, coats the metal of the sink, and dyes it red. Tyler’s a little dizzy. 

 

It’s four o’clock in the morning. What’s he doing here?

 

He staggers, and hits something, knocks it over. It makes a sound, and Tyler’s heart jumps up to his throat, hammers in his ears until it’s all he can hear. He holds his breath, grabs more kitchen roll and pats it to his slits. It doesn’t actually do much, just smears the red all over his arms. Hands. It ID’s him directly as the master painter for the mess of his life. Because this is who he is, isn’t it?

 

Bleeding hands at ten after four, alone in his kitchen. Nothing else to his name but this. 

 

And now he’s crying, fuck.

 

He hiccups, rubs his face with his hands. The scent of fresh blood immediately floods his senses, since, like an idiot, his hands were covered in it already. It’s in his eyes, it stings, and he cries harder. His throat burns, from trying to stifle his sobs.

 

A creaking of the steps has him flinching, straining to listen. Did he wake someone? He’s not decent. Not sane, either, some bitter part of him mutters. 

 

The footsteps near. He almost whines, lost, and, on impulse, ducks under the table. And he’d laugh in any other state. How pathetic does one have to be to hide under their own kitchen table, so late at night, bleeding onto the floor, face smudged with the stuff?

 

“Tyler, is that you?” It’s his mom. 

 

Tyler does whine at this, hunches further in on himself and shivers. Trembles? His mother makes a sound, and he’s too tired to figure out what it means. Just keeps his head tilted down, knees flat on the ground. Better form that he would ever have in church, perfectly hidden. Maybe he’s safe here. 

 

His mom won’t have this. She works to coax him out, careful and quiet as though he’s a wild animal she needs to be mindful not to scare away. He supposes that’s not entirely untrue; he’s terrified of what she’s really thinking. 

 

And then the kitchen sink is running, filling up, and his mom takes a rag and rubs the sides, rubs away the red and wrings the thing out in pink. Tyler watches detachedly. She doesn’t look at him, and he’s glad.

 

Then she turns to him, and with another rag she wipes his face, takes the red and leaves him clean. He lets her, because he doesn’t have it in him to do anything else. She smiles, sad, and turns to his arms. The slits have clotted, bright crimson beading across in lines, and he flicks one so it weeps a little more blood. 

 

She takes his hands, and Tyler sees something in her eyes that holds so much pain it breaks his heart. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he croaks. “Mom, I’m sorry.” 

 

She shushes him. He shuts up. 

 

She washes the slits, and without the smeared red all he sees are hazardous, crisscrossing pink. They’re not even that deep. Harmless. Innocent enough, just laying atop the flesh. 

 

It stings, but he deserves it. 

 

But maybe things will be better, now. 

 

(They will.)


End file.
